


To Mourn the Storm

by fatterbird



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I, Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, deep into headcanon land
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 03:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatterbird/pseuds/fatterbird
Summary: The rise and fall of the Nameless King.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is deep into headcanon land, where the Firstborn's crime was not siding with the dragons (that came after his exile). Imagine it as some sort of oral tale that would result in a miracle or play acted out by the Shadowmen in the Shrine of Storms in their worship of the God of War.

  
_“That we’ve broken their statues,_  
_that we’ve driven them out of their temples,_  
_doesn’t mean that the gods are dead.”_

Prologue  


He is a pyre, and in his mouth he brings the sun.

First Act

Come, O Heir of Sunlight! The FIRSTBORN enters, burning, blazing, bright. His voice is thunder and his arms are savage flame; he is more beast than god. He is most beautiful when he is annihilating; when his fury crowns him, when it courses within his muscles and through his bones and into his splitting mind.

Second Act

He is son and brother and warrior and leader - his wrist is broken from the sheer strength of his blows - there is rust on his captain's armor, there is _blood_ on his captain's armor - and the FIRSTBORN is engulfed in flame but the light on his skin is his, _his_. He's drunk on rage, it’s holding his bones together and he can't hear for all his roaring - the world darkens and -

Third Act

Under midday light, when the sun hangs highest, his crime and his birthright are set upon scales and judged before all.

Fourth Act

The FIRSTBORN is made flesh, his divinity wrung from him. His strength evaporates as the Lion arranges his limbs on the smooth marble floors of the cathedral. He bleeds blood like quicksilver. His warriors raise their heads, toss their manes wildly, stomp the ground in their mad wail: "O! You, who had been praised above all gods! Like the sun, you set - dawn will wake, but you shall not!"

He does not deign to allow anyone to see him mourn.

Fifth Act

Fatherless, nameless, he diminishes. All the impulses he strangled when light still filled his arms come back to ensavage him. He gazes at the sun for hours, days, until white-hot flowers blossom behind his eyelids. He wants to eat it, eat the sun's blaming tongue and its assessing eyes and its beating, baleful heart; to suck the marrow from its bones; he wants to wrap around it like a snake, like a vice, like a lightning bolt in a raging storm, and crush it until blood and smoke leak through the cracks in his fingers.

He will never forgive him. His rage will never still. He will never hear Gwyn's name without spitting. He will give up everything to the storm roaming inside his skull - everything - his hands and his name and his blood and his legacy - he will become a vessel for its inky winds - if only it will swallow Anor Londo up.

Epilogue

He staggers and burns and his mind is charred. The storm crackles in his hair and grief will never trouble him again. He thunders that he is glorious once more. He need not mourn: he will choke the sun and leave it as burnt light. He staggers, the Heir of Nothing, and his mind is charred. Soon will he show he is glorious once more.

Exeunt

And quietly, terribly, the sun has already long faded into ashes.


End file.
